“And the child”-Silverman glanced down at her notebook-“a little girl? She’s two? Has anyone spoken to her yet?”
“She’s almost three,” said Gemma. “And no, she’s not been told anything.”
“Best let me handle it.” Silverman sighed, and some of her vitality seemed to dissipate. “Mother disappeared, you say?” She shook her head. “That seems particularly hard under the circumstances. Still”-the briskness came back in force-“best get it over with.”
“No one’s answering the door,” Gemma explained, and as she led them round the side of the house they heard children’s voices coming from the garden.
Her flat looked just the same, except that the black garage door was shiny with new paint. Tim must have been busy with DIY, she thought. But when she glanced in the windows by the garden gate, she saw the familiar furnishings, the black half-moon table next to the tiny kitchen, the modern steel-and-leather chaise she and Duncan used to call the torture lounger, the neatly made bed with its bookcase headboard. It seemed only the fresh flowers Hazel had always left for her were missing, and the untidy flotsam of Toby’s books and toys. She felt eerily out of sync, as if her life had zigzagged back on itself.
And today, she saw as she looked over the wall, it was not Toby and Holly playing in the garden, but Holly and little Charlotte Malik. Tim sat on the patio, a beer on the flagstones beside his chair. Hazel, wearing the same cotton shorts and sleeveless blouse as the previous day, pushed the little girls on the swings.
When Gemma opened the wrought-iron garden gate, Holly flew out of the swing and ran to her, shrieking, “Auntie Gemma! Auntie Gemma! Come and push me!”
Gemma picked her up and hugged her. “I’ve missed you, too, poppet. But I can’t push you just now. I’ve got to talk to your dad.” She let Holly slide to the ground and sent her on her way with a pat.
Tim stood slowly, taking in Gemma’s face and the presence of the man and woman beside her. Hazel let Charlotte’s swing come to a rest. Then, looking down at the child, she called to Holly, “Come push Charlotte’s swing for a bit, sweetie. It’s your turn.”
“But I don’t want-”
“Now,” said Hazel, in a tone that brooked no argument. Holly went, her expression sulky, but she glanced back at her mother as if sensing something amiss. Hazel crossed to the patio and stood a few feet from Tim.
Gemma made the introductions. “Tim. Hazel. This is Detective Inspector Weller, from Bethnal Green. And Janice Silverman, from social services.”
“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” said Tim, starting towards them.
“I’m sorry, Tim.” Gemma touched his arm. “Naz Malik was found dead in Haggerston Park this morning.”
“What-How-” Even though Tim had seemed prepared, he swayed a little. “I don’t-”
“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Cavendish.” Weller steered him back to his chair. Tim sank into it, grasping the arms as if they were anchors, and Weller pulled up another. “We don’t yet know exactly what happened to your friend,” continued Weller. “If you could go over what you told DI James, here-”
“But I-” He looked across the garden and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Charlotte. Oh, Christ. What about Charlotte?”
“She’ll have to go into foster care,” Janice Silverman explained, “until we’ve contacted any relatives.”
“But Naz had none. He was orphaned, and the aunt and uncle who brought him up here died a few years ago.”
“There’s the wife’s family.”
Tim shook his head. “They didn’t see Sandra’s family. Didn’t want Charlotte to have anything to do with them. Why can’t she stay here?”
“Do you or Mrs. Cavendish have any legal status regarding the child?”
“Well, no, but she’s comfortable here. She knows me, and Holly-”
“We’re separated,” broke in Hazel. “Tim and I are separated. We share custody of Holly, so she’s only here during the school week.”
“Then it would certainly be unsuitable for the child to stay with you, Mr. Cavendish. Now, I’ll need to talk to her, and then I’ll get the placement machinery rolling.” She glanced at the children, her expression softening. The girls had stopped swinging and were watching the adults. “Charlotte is the younger of the two?”
“Yes,” said Tim.
“Perhaps you could call your little girl, Mr. Cavendish?” suggested Silverman.
Hazel reacted first. She called Holly to her, then, taking her hand, said, “Mummy needs some help in the kitchen, sweetheart. It’s hot-we’ll make some cool drinks, shall we?”
Holly went with her willingly enough, glancing back only once at her playmate as she entered the house.
“Do you have to tell her? About her dad?” Gemma said quietly to Silverman.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Silverman went to Charlotte and knelt beside her swing, Gemma following. “Charlotte, I’m Miss Janice. I’m going to be looking after you for a bit.”
Sliding from her swing with her thumb in her mouth, Charlotte looked from Silverman to Gemma, her eyes wide.
“Your daddy’s had an accident, Charlotte,” Silverman went on gently. “He was hurt, and he died. That means someone else will take care of you now. I have a nice friend you can stay with, where you’ll be very safe.”
Slowly, Charlotte removed her thumb from her mouth. “Don’t want to,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I want my daddy.”
“Your daddy is not coming home, Charlotte. I’m sorry.”
“My mummy is coming home,” Charlotte stated with conviction.
Silverman glanced at Gemma, then said, “Well, that may be. But your mummy isn’t home now, so you’ll have to stay with someone else. Why don’t we-”
“I want my daddy!” Charlotte’s wail ended on a hiccupping sob, and when Janice Silverman reached for her, she threw herself at Gemma.
Gemma gathered Charlotte into her arms, cradling her head and feeling the dampness of the child’s tears against her shoulder. The girl smelled of the newly mown garden grass, and faintly, of chocolate. Tightening her grip, Gemma murmured, “You are a little love, aren’t you?” and suddenly found she couldn’t bear the thought of this precious child being turned over to a stranger.
“Look, Mrs. Silverman,” she said, “can’t I take her? I’m a police officer. I’ve got two boys, and my-partner”- she’d been about to say
“She’s obviously formed an attachment to you. Have you done any foster care?”
“No, but-”
Silverman shook her head. “Then you’re not in the system. I’m sorry, but you’d have to be evaluated, and we need someone who can take her right away. I’ll just-”
“Wait,” said Gemma as inspiration struck. “I know someone. Just let me make one phone call.”
“I’ve a friend,” Gemma explained when the still-tearful Charlotte had been coaxed into Tim’s arms. “She’s fostered children before. If she’s willing, would that be acceptable?”
“If she’s in good standing,” Silverman said cautiously. “I’d have to speak to her myself, and do a check.”
“I’m sure she’d be fine. She’s the mother of the friend who helps look after our kids. She’s great with them.” Gemma knew she was over-explaining, and that it was as much to reassure herself as Janice Silverman. Excusing herself, she walked to the back of the garden and looked out over the garage flat as she made the call, fingers crossed.
When she heard Betty Howard’s cheerful voice, West Indian accent still intact after more than forty years in Notting Hill, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Betty, it’s Gemma. I’ve a favor to ask.” She explained the situation as succinctly as she could.
“Oh, the poor child,” said Betty. “I’d be glad to take her, Gemma. Only thing is, I’ve got the costumes for carnival-”
“We could help out,” Gemma offered. Betty had sewn elaborate costumes for the Notting Hill carnival since the seventies, and Gemma knew what a time-consuming job it was. “If that would make a difference.”
“Wesley should be able to pitch in a bit,” said Betty, in a considering tone. “Though it would mean less time with your two. But if you could take the child the odd hour or two in the evening, I think we could just
